


An apple at bay

by Moriartehhh



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Dwarves, F/M, Fantasy AU, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Self-Hatred, Thievery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriartehhh/pseuds/Moriartehhh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Snow White AU featuring everyone's favorite rag-tag team of spies. </p>
<p>Napoleon Solo is the heir to his father's throne, but after his beloved mother's death, his father remarries. His new wife, Victoria, is bitter and wishes to have the kingdom to herself. She does away with the King, and attempts to rid herself of his son, but her guard, Gaby, is unable to kill the young man.<br/>Thus, the prince is forced to find a way to survive outside of the castle, and under the evil Queen's radar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this is enjoyable, more is on the horizon!

“Oh, Mirror, Mirror, on the wall?” The Queen drawled lusciously, leaning forward to inspect her fingernails uninvestedly. The magic mirror hummed as a face rippled into view, the face of a middle aged man, his face well groomed beside the bushy mustache. 

“My Queen.” The mirror greeted, his bodiless head nodding in acknowledgement. “What is it that you require?”

The Queen, Victoria, inhaled deeply before rising from her chair and ambling towards the vanity holding the mirror. Her long blonde hair was done up in a loose, braided bun, strands falling precariously. She was a beautiful woman, there was no denying of that, but her beauty held a dangerous quality. Her husband, the King, had died mere months prior, yet she did not mourn. The people of the kingdom grew suspicious when she took the crown rather than it falling to the King’s son. They believed her to have killed the King for his kingdom. They believed correctly. 

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall.” Her sultry voice wove slowly through the space. “Who is the fairest of them all?” She held a wine glass in hand, swirling the mixture about before lifting the glass to her lips.   The man in the mirror seemed nervous, not immediately answering the Queen’s question. The glass in Victoria’s hand stilled, her shapely eyebrow arching curiously. 

“Mirror?”

“You are a breathtaking woman, my Queen—“ The man rattled off nervously, his eyes shifty and wide. 

“Mirror.” She growled. 

“You know, no woman compares to your beauty—“ 

“No woman?” The Queen whirled about, facing the squeamish mirror. Her gaze was laced with accusation, putting the head’s rant to a staggering halt. Silence hung over the chamber like a venomous fog, the only noise being the click of Victorias’s heels as she approached him. “What do you mean, no woman?”

“There is one, ma’am.” The mirror gulped, “One more fair.”

“Who?” She snarled calmly, her eyes pinched like a snakes.

“Madame, there is only one! You are otherwise unchallenged and I, personally—“

“I asked, who?” The Queen roared.

“Napoleon.” The mirror whimpered. 

The room went dead silent.

Victoria stood frozen as the words of the mirror cascaded over her. Her mouth hung agape, words having suddenly failed her. 

“Solo?” She whispered, her voice cracking. 

“Yes, madame.”

“He is…” She breathed, a fire burning in her eyes, “better…than me…” The grip on her wine glass tightened with every word, before the expensive challace shattered into a million diamond pieces, skittering across the tile floor. 

“My Queen, I beg of you, do not do something you will regret.” He begged, watching as she shakily turned towards the chamber door, hand unclenching to let the glass shards embedded in her flawless skin fall to the floor. Effortlessly, she flung the doors wide and marched out into the foyer. 

“Guards!” She screeched, her voice booming powerfully. Within minutes, three guards had entered the hall at her request, now standing alert. She studied them all in turn, deciding upon the smallest to use as her pawn. 

“You,” She pointed at the guard, whom nodded curtly, “stay. The rest of you, leave.” The other guards bowed in respect and made their leave in the directions from which they came. Victoria eyed the remaining guard quizzically, pacing about her quickly, like a fox circling the prone figure of a rabbit. 

“Your name, guard?” She asked in a sickly sweet, calm tone. 

“Gaby Teller, ma’am.”

“Do you serve me above all else, Gaby?”

“Of course, my Queen.” Gaby resisted the urge to question why the Queen felt need to question her loyalty. To question the loyalty of a royal guard was usually a sign of a task at hand. Sure enough, 

“Would you kill for me, Gaby?” She stopped pacing, standing stiffly behind the shorter woman’s shoulder. “No matter who I asked you to kill?”

The young woman gulped, her palms growing sweaty. Her father came to mind, his forty years of service for the King before his disappearance. It had only been two months since he had last been seen, coincidentally, one month after the King had married Victoria, and one month before the King’s death. Even the guards had their suspicions of the new Queen, but her father would have never shied from a royal order. Never. 

“Of course, my Queen.” A wicked smirk spread across Victoria’s face, sending shivers down Gaby’s spine. She looked like a wolf. 

“Tomorrow before sundown, you will meet someone at the edge of the forrest and accompany them out into the woods—far enough for no one to hear you. Then, you will kill them, bury them, and return to the castle. As far as anyone, myself included, is concerned, nothing will have ever taken place.” Victoria turned her back on the guard, Gaby’s eyes trailing down the angular sculpt of her pointed shoulders.

“May I ask whom I am to kill, my Queen?” Gaby croaked, fighting down the budding paranoia. 

“Can I rely on you for this, young Gaby?” 

She paused for a moment, going over the choices in her mind. She had no choice though, she would do it; if nothing else, for her father. 

“Yes, ma’am, you can.”

Victoria smiled wickedly over her shoulder before sauntering forward to the doors of the chamber, preparing to close them behind herself. 

“His name is Napoleon Solo.”

The doors slammed shut.


	2. the long and winding path

Gaby stood alert, next to a rotten tree. Her brown hair fell gently about her face, framing her rosy cheeks. The brisk cold cut into her exposed flesh as the late autumn breeze snaked through the trees. Her hand rested lightly upon her sword, her mind drifting to what it would soon do. She had killed a man before, of course, but not her Kingdom’s own Prince, and so soon after he had lost his own father. 

She had heard many rumors of the Prince—that he was charming, charismatic, gorgeous, but nothing more than that. The women of the kingdom never seemed to stop fawning at the mention of his name, and some of the men as well. Needless to say, he was a very popular man, the Prince. For all she knew though, he could be a horrible person. She just had to convince herself that, and her task would be easy. ‘After all,’ she thought to herself, ‘how hard could it be to kill a prince? Surely, it couldn’t be too har—‘

“Quite chilly out today.” Gaby startled, her hand slipping off the hilt of her sword as she looked up quickly to face a strikingly attractive young man. His hair was the dark ebony of a ravens feather, combed back to tame what she could tell were usually unruly curls. He was well muscled, built like a blacksmith, with broad shoulders and cheekbones sharper than most daggers. His skin was pale, contrasting perfectly with his pink lips and blushed cheeks. The final feature was what caught her eye for the longest time, his eyes; they were a staggering blue that could outshine the hue of the sky. 

“You’re the lucky guard I’m to accompany to the woods, yes?” He smiled easily at the blushing guard, he was used to this treatment from others. ‘Nothing but a pretty face’, he thought bitterly. 

Gaby readjusted her stance, trying to regain her professional persona. She refused to let such a handsome man steer her from her task. She would not let the Queen down. 

“I am indeed, your highness.” She responded curtly, bowing slightly to show her respects. The man seemed to hunker into himself for a moment at her words, causing the brunette to quirk a slender brow. Had she said something wrong? She momentarily pondered whether or not she should voice her query out loud, but the prince seemed to pick up on her confusion and beat her to it. 

“It’s Napoleon.” He said softly, “You can call me Napoleon. There’s no need for any titles, especially if I am to spend the evening with you.” A seductive wink sent a shiver down the woman’s spine, she wasn’t sure she liked this man. 

“Of course, Napoleon.” She corrected, “My apologies.”

“No need for that.” He scoffed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trousers and sauntering casually to stand closer to her, bending down to be on her eye level. “Shall we?” He swept his hand out to her side in a grand gesture. 

“You lead the way.” Gaby snarked back, standing at attention and meeting his eyes in a challenge. ‘You will not fluster me, Prince.’

“Just the way I like it.” Another wink. Then, he was standing back up to his full height and ambling down towards the forrest path. Gaby stood in place for a moment, watching his back in disbelief. Surely a person couldn’t be that obnoxious. 

“Coming?” He called back to her, peering jestingly over his shoulder. She bristled silently before following the man’s lead at a slightly slower pace. That way she could watch his back, and insure that he goes where she needs him to go. She didn’t trust him enough to walk adjacent. The Queen had told the man that he was accompanying her to meet a member of the neighboring kingdom to discuss future relations, which granted, was a faulty excuse. Why would they arrange a meeting in the middle of the forrest? Gaby sent a silent prayer to whatever god would listen that the prince wasn’t smart enough to put two and two together. It would be a valid excuse so long as the man didn’t think about it too much, that just meant she would have to occupy his attention somehow. ‘How hard can that be?’ 

The pair walked silently for what felt like hours down the windy wooden path, neither breaking the silence with conversation. It was almost comfortable, being able to just walk with no destination in mind. Gaby found she quite liked the serenity of the wondering, if not for the realization that it would end rather abruptly before much longer. Finally, after another ten minutes of silence, the prince leered back to the guard. 

“I forgot to ask your name.” He stated softly, his eyes holding a certain genuine edge that caused her stomach to flip. In that brief moment, the Prince looked…human. 

“Gaby.” She replied, brushing off her lapse of judgement. “Gaby Teller.” The prince stopped walking, turning around to fully face her, a genuine smile on his face. 

“Teller?” He chuckled, “I remember your father.” 

She froze. 

“You do?” The statement didn’t sit right, no one ever noticed the royal guards, that was the job. They were the nameless protectors. The royals never cared enough to know their names, it would only make it harder when their duty inevitable cost them their life. 

“Of course I do, why wouldn’t I?” A look of confusion crossed the man-Napoleon’s face. He untucked his hands from his pockets, setting them on his hips. 

“It’s just…unusual, Sir—“

“Napoleon.”

“—Napoleon. It’s unusual for someone to know us by name.” She knew it was a low blow to say it out loud as soon as she saw the man flinch back, as if burned. His hands fell to his sides, his gaze falling to the forrest floor. 

“Right.” Gaby felt herself instinctively move to comfort the sullen man, but stopped her hand before she reached out to him. He looked out to the side dejectedly, his jaw set painfully tight. Then, without another word, he turned and continued his earlier pace. 

“We’ll need to keep moving to intercept them before dark.” He spoke. Gaby bit down her response, and followed suit. She could only hold her peace for a few minutes, however, before she was speaking out again.

“I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t expect it to affect you like that.” Her apology was honest, she had no intentions to hurt him, well…

“No, it’s quite alright. It’s what we do, after all. We overlook the important ones.” His voice was tinted with anger, keeping her from responding again. She was unable to pinpoint where his rage was aimed, and didn’t feel like taking any chances. 

“I did know your father.” He spoke again after another lapse of silence. “He was a good man, had a very sturdy set of morals. He stole a danish from the kitchen pantry once for me, I was eight.” Gaby gawked at the back of his head, having no idea what to say. “He told me it was because I reminded him of someone, someone with just as much curiosity in her eyes.” 

“I—“ Gaby murmured, moisture prickling at her eyes. 

“I assume he was talking about you.” There was a smile in his voice. “I didn’t see him very often, but he was never without a smile when I did. I never understood that, how someone could smile with such an awful job, having to tend to us.” The last word was nearly spit. 

“It’s not so bad.” She whispered. He must have forgotten she was there, for his shoulders tensed as he startled. He recovered so quickly that Gaby almost believed she had imagined it.

“How could it not be? We’re awful, us royals. Bunch of fat, lazy arses who sit around all day making decisions that affect the lives of those we can’t even empathize with. It’s disgusting.” 

“It’s the hardest job in the kingdom—“ she scoffed, thrown by the bitter words the man was saying. Instantly, she knew she had said the wrong thing though, as he came to a complete halt and whirled around, nearly causing her to run smack into his chest. 

“Hard? Being a royal? HA!” Gaby stepped back, unprepared for the rage that was in those vibrant blue orbs. “Nothing about it is hard, except for how hard it is not to care about every life that is beneath you. Hard is being a farmer who breaks their back all week long for enough pay to feed the chickens for two days. Hard is being a doctor who works day and night to save lives which often are beyond retribution. That, is hard. Being a royal is not hard!”

The autumn air felt more than cold as the man abruptly turned back to go lean against a tree and catch his breath. Gaby suddenly felt herself feeling sorry for Napoleon. The feeling settled heavily in her gut and she silently cursed herself for having ever responded to him in the first place. This should have been easy, but now it was obvious to her that he wasn’t in as good of a place as the kingdom seemed to think. The burden of royalty was obviously much higher than what she was lead to believe, or was it only for Napoleon that it was so hard?

‘No, you have to do this.’ She chastised herself mentally, ‘You gave the Queen your word, does that mean nothing to you?’ Her hand slowly found its way to grip the hilt of her sword, preparing to silently unsheath the blade. His back was turned to her, it would be easy to take advantage now. They were out of earshot, this was far enough. ‘This has to be done.’

The blade slid out of the sheath soundlessly, and was no longer a comfortable weight in Gaby’s hand. For the first time since she had been given this sword, it felt wrong in her grasp. She took a step forward, mentally urging herself to just take a quick swipe. She could take back his heart to the Queen, prove the job had been done, none would be the wiser. This would be easy. He has no idea, this will be easy and effortless and then it will be done and I will be—

“The Queen has ordered I kill you.” Damn.

“What?” Napoleon looked back in shock, his eyes widening as he saw her blade. He gulped once, straightening his shoulders and squaring up the guard with his gaze. They both stood for a moment, neither entirely sure they had heard correctly. 

“Well?” He asked, breaking the silence. “Are you going to do it?” Gaby recognized the look of acceptance in his eyes, acceptance that had come to quickly for her pleasing. 

“No. No, I am not.”

“She’ll kill you.”

“No, for I will bring back evidence that you are dead.” She let her arm go slack, no longer poised to take a stab at the other. 

“Oh?” 

“I will cut out the heart of a deer, and present it to the Queen, claiming it to be your heart.” Gaby fought the urge to smile at her own ingenuity. 

“I assume this plan of yours requires me to disappear?” She made a mental note of the undertone of hopefulness to his question.

“I’m sure if you continue into the woods you will find somewhere to take refuge.” She reasoned, shrugging lightly. He nodded quizzically, gazing out at the path. He returned his gaze after a few moments and nodded again, this time with more power. 

“I’m sure there is.” He whispered. A soft breeze cut through to them, billowing gently against their exposed skin. Gaby watched as he clenched his eyes shut and inhaled the air as if it were his last breath. 

“I should return.” She insisted, forcing herself to look away. 

“Right, best of luck to you.” 

They stood in silence once more. She spared him one last glance before turning to return the way they had come, this time bathed in a lack of conversation. 

“Gaby?” Napoleon suddenly called, she slowed her pace but did not stop, looking back quickly as he spoke. His eyes were earnest. “Your father would be proud of you.” His feet crunched against the trodden earth as he continued onward, the opposite direction as she. It was a sad feeling, the parting of ways, he was someone she could see herself enjoying, a good friend, but this was best. She knew that she couldn’t have brought herself to kill him. 

Halfway back to the castle, there was a rustling off to the side of the path. The guard paused, glancing off towards the noise just in time to spot a white flecked tail. A small smile painted her lips as she snuck off the path, pulling out the dagger from its place. 

She had found herself a deer.


	3. The thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!

Illya stood awkwardly in front of the full length mirror, tugging anxiously at the lapels of his jacket. The gilded fabric shimmered richly, making his blonde hair appear a light golden hue. The mirror was barely tall enough to accommodate his height, forcing him to hunch his shoulders in a ‘peasantry fashion’. His uncles words brought a foul taste to his mouth. He had never seen eye to eye with the man, after all, but had always attempted to go along with his views in favor of the benefit of the kingdom.

“One day the Kingdom will be yours, Illya. You need to know how to properly care for it.” His uncles accented drawl settled down on him like a storm cloud. The mirror reflected his responding glower. A light tremor began in his left hand, his finger tapping loosely against his thigh—tap. tap. tap.

“It will all be on your shoulders.” He straightened his posture, squaring his torso. The tremor picked up in pace— tap tap tap tap.

“They will all look to you.” He gripped the side of his thigh, clenching his hand into a fist. 

“You will be their deciding force.” His breathing grew shallow. tap tap tap tap.

“You and your bride.” 

Illya ripped his gaze from the reflection, his hands reaching up shakily to tug at the collar about his neck. He sucked in a few deep breaths, feeling the tremor in his hand begin to subside. There was no use having an ‘episode’ now, in another Kingdom, at an expensive, elegant, important gala. 

Illya let out a breathy sigh, his hands falling limply to his sides. The pressure to find a bride had become an ever-growing nuisance, especially as his uncle began to approach a ‘senile’ age. His parents had ruled the Kingdom before his uncle, for the majority of his childhood they had ruled. His father had been swept up into a scandal with a neighboring Kingdom around his tenth birthday, and upon discovery of this, the people had revolted. The only way to squelch the uprising had been for the coronation of his uncle, Oleg, as the new King. This had not pleased the neighboring Kingdom’s people, however, and his father had been taken to imprisoned upon their soil. Two weeks following his tenth birthday, Illya had seen his father for the last time. His mother had passed away not much longer, and not without a ‘friendly’ prejudice over her head. 

He would be coronated following his Uncle, and required a Queen. Oleg had sent him to a neighboring kingdom’s gala to attend with their princess. She was a stunning young woman—wavy dark hair, bright blue eyes, perfect height, but there was one thing she was not. 

She was not a he.

Since his adolescence, Illya had known that he felt for his same gender the way he was supposed to feel for the fairer sex. He had not managed to inform his parents before they had both been taken from him by fate, and was too afraid to tell his Old-Fashioned uncle. The prospect of a kingdom being ruled by two King’s, or Queen’s, was not a foreign concept, but was not entirely embraced either. 

There was a knock at the door, pulling Illya from his thoughts. 

“Come in.” He beckoned. A small servant peaked his head around the door cautiously. 

“The gala has begun, my Lord. The princess awaits you in the ball room.”

Illya fought the sigh of response and nodded curtly instead. The servant preened happily as he shut the door. The prince slumped in on himself, reaching towards his case to pull out the final touch—his fathers pocket watch. It had been given to him upon his ninth birthday, as a symbol of his oncoming adulthood. He barely ever let it part from his person. 

Gently, he slipped the watch into his jacket pocket and turned to leave the guest chamber. He would not leave the princess waiting, no matter how much the thought secretly appealed to him. 

His steps resonated against the pristine marble as he made his way down to the ballroom. The sounds of the arriving guests was an unwelcome background noise as he composed himself. He did not know the people of this kingdom, nor their customs, and was not delighted by the notion of having to learn. Even if he played along with his uncles insufferable plan to marry him off to some random princess, she would return with him, he would be able to avoid becoming ‘one with her people’. 

“Prince Kuryakin!” A shrill, young woman called from behind him as he entered the ballroom. He turned, facing the inquiry, finding the princess approaching. He forced himself to smile. 

“Princess.” He greeted, taking her hand and placing a gentle kiss upon her soft skin. She blushed lightly. 

“I enjoy your accent.” She said. Illya chuckled once, silently taking in the rapidly growing crowd around them. 

“I am glad it entertains you.”

“I apologize, I am sure you hear that often.” She grinned reproachfully. Illya felt a sadness blossom in his chest, she truly seemed to be a lovely woman. She didn’t deserve a loveless marriage. 

“I do not travel often.” He offered her his arm, sweeping them towards the outskirts of the room. 

“Really?” She pondered, her eyes filled with a genuine desire for information concerning the foreign prince. Illya chortled, the girls mirth reminded him of the spontaneity of the children of his Kingdom. They would always give him that same awestruck look when presented with information surrounding the life of a royal. Children were so naive. 

“Really.” He assured. “I have not strayed from the castle much.” The princess waved daintily at the faces in the crowd as they passed, keeping up her regal facade. Illya, meanwhile, saw little point in trying. 

“Have you never wanted to?” She asked, leaning into his side to be heard over the noise of the people around them. 

“Occasionally, yes.” He nodded stiffly. She hummed, undeterred by his cold nature. 

“Yet, you’ve resisted. Why?” He paused, considering her question. It wasn’t that he had never possessed the desire to travel to other lands, but rather the notion seemed almost… lonely. He would never admit this finding out loud, however, for risk of a misunderstanding with the girl. She would surely just get the idea that his ‘loneliness’ was a problem for which she was the solution. 

“My presence is more valuable in my own land.” He lied easily, watching as she accepted the excuse. 

They lapsed into silence for the next hour of the event, numerous men sweeping in to steal the princess for a dance. By the eleventh time, Illya was growing ready to simply tell them to keep her for the rest of the night. She was a lovely woman, but she was also exceedingly ordinary. A part of him scoffed at his own pickiness, demanding that she would be perfect for his purposes, but he also knew there would never be any emotions involved. 

Carefully, Illya excused himself from a one-sided conversation with a particularly chatty aristocrat, and headed up towards one of the castles many towers. The night sky had always provided a certain solace for the prince. It allowed him a moment of peace in which he could breathe. The stars shone gorgeously over the tree-line from the vantage point of the tower. Illya sighed, the cold, night air invading his lungs in a pleasant flurry. 

He sets his hands down on the low wall, fingers spread wide. The music and laughter was still buzzing beneath him, but was no longer as obnoxious as when he had been immediately amongst it. 

The tower door lazily swung open behind him. Illya tensed briefly before hearing the distinct soft sound of the princess’ heals against the expensive marble. She lightly padded over to stand beside him, leaning against the wall as well. 

“Lovely view.” She whispered after a moment, a small cloud where the warmth of her breath mixed with the frigid air. Illya nodded weakly in response. She seemed to ponder her next move for a moment before proceeding with the conversation. 

“You aren’t much of a party man, Illya.” He stiffened at the use of his first name. 

“No.” She hummed lightly, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. He felt a small inkling of need to offer the princess his jacket. 

“Were you forced to come here tonight?” She whispered. Illya felt his head fall in defeat, a breath he didn’t realize he was holding slipped out.

“It was not my idea, no.” He spoke slowly, judging his response by her facial reaction. When her eyes grew semi misty, he felt the need to elaborate more on his point. “You are an amazing woman, Princess, and I am sure there will be many better man offering themselves to you, but I—“

“Am not ready?” She mumbled, sounding hopeful. He was caught off guard by her tone. 

“What?” 

“I understand.” She smiled, unfurling her arms to reach over and pat him lightly on the arm. “My parents have been pushing me to find a husband for the past few months. I have attempted to push away their affections, but my regard will not hold forever.” She gazed longingly down from the tower. Illya felt sympathy for her in that moment. 

“I am sorry.” He offered. She waved her hand dismissively, snapping back into her composed facade. 

“You are forgiven.” She grasped his forearm gently, looking at him with light in her eyes. “Now, I believe you owe me at least one dance.”

Illya smiled, taking her arm in his. The pair turned back, entering the stairwell and walking silently down the stairs to the bottom floor of the tower. They reached the floor and began to return towards the crown when, suddenly, a man came barreling around a corner and smack into the two of them, knocking them off balance. 

“Oh, dear me! I am ever so clumsy lately!” The man crowed, steadying himself and the princess before reaching over to readjust Illya’s jacket. 

“My greatest apologies!” He stammered, his frame shaking slightly. Illya went to reprimand the oafish, smaller man, but froze as he got a good look at him. 

He was shorter than Illya, but in no way a small man. His frame was muscular and well built—strong arms and shoulders, on a powerful torso. His skin was a creamy pale, his cheeks with a hint of rosy touch. His suit was a deep navy blue, with a regal touch of silver. He looked important . Yet, the real catcher for Illya was not the man’s ebony hair, or his perfect cheekbones, but his eyes—the most perfect hue of strikingly, sky blue. 

The sound of a commotion arose from the adjacent hallway, Illya’s gaze not leaving the smaller man’s face. He watched as panic briefly filled those beautiful blue eyes before the man was excusing himself quickly and rushing down the passage towards the rear entrance of the castle. 

Illya watched his back as he left, the way the muscles moved flawlessly under the pulled fabric. He felt something tug painfully in his chest. 

“Which way did he go?” A guard yelled, running towards the frazzled pair, more guards following him closely. Illya shook himself mentally, but the princess beat him to a response. 

“I don’t…” She gasped, Illya looked over sharply to see if she was alright. Her hand was spread flush against the top of her chest, eyes wide and filled with terror. 

“Princess?” He asked. 

“My necklace!” She breathed, looking up at the taller man in fear. “He…he took my mothers necklace!” Illya felt his mouth grow dry, a nagging feeling of paranoia caused him to reach down to the pocket of his jacket. His fathers watch was gone. 

Illya snarled, all pretenses of emotions for the man disappearing instantly. He whirled on his heel and raced after him. The sound of the guards following behind him was only a small background noise to the prince as he ran at full speed to exit the castle. He threw the door open and was hit by a wall of chilled air. 

There was only one horse tied up to the back post, which Illya was quick to saddle on to. He ripped the tie from the post and pulled the reigns to bring the horse to a readying position. Just as the guards burst from the castle, he took off towards the forest, ears trained to the sound of hoofs ahead of him. His vision was red, anger coursing through him. 

He would get his father’s watch back. 

He would catch that man.


	4. The bridge

Napoleon gripped the reigns of his horse, the wind lashing at his face. He squinted to see his way ahead in the woods. The trees whizzed by at rapid pace, branches coming close to whipping out against him. The sound of hooves was echoing behind him loudly, the noise of his pursuer. 

In the two months since his ‘death’, Napoleon had managed to snake his way between kingdoms, getting by stealing goods from the residents. It was quite the turn about from his previous way of living, but there was no option of turning back at this point. His only regret was not staying long enough to hear about the fate of the guard, Gaby. He hoped that Victoria had at least been merciful, or even that she had believed the guard’s story, but that seemed a little hopeful. 

The woods suddenly grew denser, the brush becoming untamed. Napoleon grit his teeth and tugged the reigns to the left, steering the horse directly into the overgrowth. The horse jerked lightly before regaining its fast pace. The thief kept in a groan as the branches began to assault his body, no doubt leaving gashes in their wake. It was a shame, he had really liked the suit. He should have never gone to that stupid gala, or stolen the princess’ necklace. 

Two kingdoms back, he had caught word of a new kingdom, a place where all dreams could become reality. The bar he had been in had contained a notorious pirate, who was rumored to be going on a voyage to this new land, and was apparently willing to take a passenger. Napoleon, in good nature, had approached the pirate, bartering for his passage on the ship. The man had agreed to only allow a place on the ship if he was presented with a priceless necklace. Begrudgingly, Napoleon had agreed, and now he was here—dashing through an unkempt forrest on the back of a royal stallion with an attractive prince chasing after him. Under any other circumstance, he might have enjoyed this a little more. 

A flash of the prince crossed his mind then, the man’s golden hair and beautiful blue eyes. He had been wearing the perfect shade of red that had flattered his figure gorgeously. The man had been tall, towering over Napoleon, who was usually the one who was taller than others. If it hadn’t been for the guards chasing him, Napoleon would have been tempted to try and smooth talk the other man. He had been with the princess though, shame. Such a perfect man was rarely on the market, he thought bitterly. Not that he could even shop on that market. 

Napoleon ripped back on the reigns as he came up on a creek. He sorted through his thoughts, trying to remember which way was towards the docks. Rashly, he grumbled before taking another left and leading the horse along the bank of the creek. ‘When in doubt, follow the water’, he thought to himself. 

The creek lead all the way to a bridge over a large chasm, the water falling over the edge and down to the crashing wake below. Napoleon pulled the horse to stop, and studied the bridge. A large chunk of the middle was missing, rotted and fallen to the depths below years prior. There was no way to cross on a horse. There was only a single slender board that remained between the two sides of the haggard bridge. 

Hastily, he hopped off the horse and smacked it in the side to send it running back into the woods, back towards the castle. With a gulp of resignation, he turned and tucked his hand into his pocket, checking to make sure the necklace was still there. Then, quickly, he ran forward to cross the bridge. 

“Stop!” Napoleon felt a wave of cold hit him at the outburst, picking up his pace and refusing to turn around. There was a loud thud as the other man leapt from his horse and ran to catch up with the escaping thief. Napoleon sucked in a nervous breath as he crossed the single plank, praying to whatever god would listen that it wouldn’t break, and when it didn’t he pushed forward with a smile on his face. There was a few small thunks and then the following footsteps stopped, allowing him a brief moment of relief. His pursuer had been stopped by something. 

“Wait, you don’t understand!” The other prince sounded angry, and yet, a hint of fear was in his voice. Napoleon felt his pace falter as he reached the end of the bridge, coming to a halt before the tree line. He clenched his eyes, trying to tone out the noise of a fight between the prince and the unseen force. ‘Don’t turn around, Solo,’ he commanded himself. ‘Don’t do it, it’s not worth it’.

There was a grunt of pain, and the thief groaned in defeat, turning around and stalking back towards the commotion. A few trolls had come up onto the bridge, and were slowly stalking up onto the taller man. He was holding his face, his hand covering the space by his right eye, and there was a trickle of blood oozing from behind his hand. One of the trolls must have lashed out with a knife when the man tried to follow across the bridge. 

“None pass without payment.” The smallest of the trolls sneered, its words barely passing as english. Napoleon took another step forward, crossing the plank back onto the side containing the others. 

“And what payment does he owe you?” He drawled, raising an eyebrow sassily. The trolls all whirled about to growl at him, their fangs spoiled and yellowed. The taller prince seemed to form his own plan then, lashing out with his fist and smashing one of their throats. Napoleon started for a second, as surprised as the trolls as the prince began to lash out at the others, successfully disarming them once they had become distracted. 

In his bout of rage, the royal giant managed not to notice on of the last trolls snake around behind him, pulling out its knife and readying itself for a fatal blow. Without a second thought, Napoleon lunged forwards, wrapping his arms around it’s neck and throwing it off balance. He felt it swing out as the air was knocked from his lungs. Quickly, he reached into his shirt and pulled out the pendent on the end of the necklace he had acquired a few villages back. He uncorked it and rashly threw the multicolored dust into the creatures eyes. Instantly, it was surrounded in a shroud of mist and Napoleon fell back with a muttered, “Oof”. 

There was a small beetle where the troll had been a moment before. 

Illya stood, wide eyed, breathing deeply across from the thief. His eyes were glued to where the beast had been moments prior. Napoleon chuckled loosely, the other man was obviously not used to the use of magic around him. 

“Magic, eh.” He groaned, shifting up onto his elbows in attempt to begin to stand. The other man regarded him with a wild look, not unlike that of a rabid animal. 

“Why did you do that.” He bit out monotonously. Napoleon tilted his head in confusion. 

“Do what?” He lifted himself up to his feet shakily, the wear of the past few weeks straining his movement. There was no response, urging him to resort to his jesting manner. “Save you?”

The other prince scowled. 

“I could have taken that thing.” He snarled, pointing angrily at the bug that was now flying off towards the woods. Napoleon smiled, the other man looked cute when he was flustered. His frown pulled at his dazzling eyes. 

“Oh, really?” He crossed his arms defensively, covering his chest. “From where I was standing, it looked like you were in need of assistance.” He got a spurred feeling of prowess when the other soured significantly. 

“You were not standing, you were running, like coward.” He growled, showing off his white teeth. His accent grew thicker as he got angry, Napoleon noted delightfully. 

“I was running because you were chasing me.”

“You stole my watch!”

“That’s what you were after?” Napoleon scoffed. 

“It is my father’s watch—“

“Not the princess’ necklace? A watch—“

“My father’s watch!” The man took a large stride forward, closing into the thief’s personal space. Napoleon squared his posture, trying to make himself appear taller as the other man dominated over him. The weight of the pocket watch was suddenly heavier than it had been before. 

“I didn’t realize it was that special to you.” He droned, keeping his expression stoic. The resulting snarl made his stomach churn in a not entirely unpleasant way. 

“Return it.” 

“That wouldn’t be stealing.”

“Return. It.”

“I wouldn’t be a very good thief if I returned what I had stolen.” The man roared, reaching out to wrap his enormous hands around the smaller mans throat. Napoleon barely had time to let out a startled gasp before his back was being slammed into the rickety side of the bridge. He gasped and kicked out to try and swipe out the others legs. When that failed he smacked up on the underside of the man’s arm and slipped out around him. 

Before Napoleon could even regain his bearings to decide his next move, there was an arm around his waist and his knees were out from underneath him. He went down hard, the weight of the other landing roughly on him. With a hiss of pain he wriggled forward, trying to get out of the hold. There was another snarl as their positions were changed and the taller man was wrapping about him like an octopus from behind, his legs about his waist and his arms keeping his head in a vice-like choke. 

“No—“ He gasped, gripping the arms about his neck and struggling for breath. He reached down into his pocket with trembling fingers and pulled free to watch, holding up so that the Red Peril would catch sight of it. There was a pause and then he was being thrown forward, off the others chest and onto his knees. The watch had been ripped from his hands, leaving him scrambling at the rotting wood planks and gasping for air. 

“Not very gentle, are you.” He groaned, his lungs burning. He glanced over to watch the prince stand to his full height and examine the watch for any imperfections.

“I didn’t break it.” He mumbled, putting his hands on his knees and squeezing his eyes shut. 

“I don’t trust you.” 

“Not a lot of people do.”

The man gave him a sour look, his brow furrowing as he sneered. Napoleon tried not to notice how the light splayed perfectly across his chest, the tight red fabric complimented him perfectly. Red was a good color on this prince. He shook off the thought and unsteadily rose to his feet again. 

“I should be going.” He noted, his eyes trailing to where the guards could suddenly burst from the tree-line at any moment. “I am not overly fond of the prospect of jail.”

“You are a thief.”

“Exactly, so you just tell the princess and her bodyguards that you hefted me over the side of this bridge and I was swept into oblivion. You get your watch, and I keep my freedom.” 

“That would be dishonorable.” He scoffed.

“Ah, right.” Napoleon rolled his eyes. “The honorable prince, how did I forget. Did you chase after me to reclaim your soon-to-be bride’s beloved necklace?” He mocked, gesturing wildly with his hands. “To win the Princess’s heart and affections.” There was a small noise of indignation from the other.

“To tame the free spirited bitc—“ There were hands gripping his collar before he could finish, pulling him up to be eye-to-eye with the other man. He could a whiff of the man’s cologne, the scent burrowing into his memory. 

“Do not speak that way about a princess.” Napoleon felt a chill run down his spine, suddenly feeling small and vulnerable in this mans grip. 

“Didn’t mean to offend your woman.” He smirked, watching as the man bit down his rage in response.

“She is not my woman.” Their faces were really close now, and Napoleon felt his chest tighten. It would be easy for him to just lean forward and meet the other man’s lips. See if he tasted as perilous as he fought, see if his lips were as soft and full as they looked right now. Guilty thoughts filled the thief’s mind, making him bite down his other comments for fear that something unhealthy might slip out. This man was royalty, he would be outraged by the thoughts that were plaguing the lesser man. 

“Shame.” He lied earnestly, a wicked glint in his eyes. A peculiar emotion flashed across the taller man’s face before a shout rang out from the woods behind him. He turned to look towards the source and Napoleon took the opportunity to weasel out of his hold and dash back across the bridge, a strip of the expensive material ripped away from his collar. 

The sounds of the oncoming guards spurred the man to the edge of the forrest, but he paused there, looking back over his shoulder. The Prince was watching him, a strange look plastered to his face. He had the piece of fabric clutched in his hand. If Napoleon hadn’t known any better, he would have thought the man looked like he was longing.

The brush ruffled and Napoleon disappeared into the woods, the Prince’s face singed in the back into his mind. He knew it was unwise, but a part of him wished that they would meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to try and keep the nicknames from the movie, seeing as Illya is wearing a red jacket when they meet. and he is quite perilous, so it makes somewhat sense I suppose. Also, cowboy may still be used. I'm not sure yet. Hope it's enjoyable so far!


	5. "Napoleon"

Illya held his fathers watch tightly in a clenched fist, the metal feeling like icy fire against his bare skin. He could almost imagine the warmth it had held when he had taken it back from the thief not two weeks ago. The small trinket had been warmed and different in his hold after the other man had possessed it. There was just a certain warmth about the thief. He could have left the Prince to the devices of the trolls, but for some reason, unknown to Illya, he had decided to come back. He could have lost his freedom over that decision. 

Illya’s stomach churned painfully at the memory of the thief, he had never even gotten the man’s name. All he had to remember him was a returned watch a torn strip of fabric. A piece of fabric that Illya had kept on hand at all times since the encounter, there was just something about the other man—how he made the Prince feel. Since the thief had escaped, Illya had felt almost emptier than before. He couldn’t explain it, there was just a longing for the unknown man that had burned deeply in the Prince since the encounter. 

“Dearest, are you alright?” A woman’s voice pierced through his thoughts, his hand instinctively releasing the watch and pulling from his pocket. He turned to watch the Princess step out of their carriage, a look of uninterested concern on her face. She truly was beautiful, he wished he could have been drawn to her like he was to the thief. 

“I am fine.” He nodded, scanning the tree-line once more before walking back to the woman. She leaned against the carriage door, watching him with her lips pulled into a tight line. He would have read the expression as concern if the situation had been any different. 

“Any sign of him?” She questioned lazily, eying the guards surrounding the carriage atop their horses.

“Not yet, but I will find him.” He sneered, drawing a soft laugh out of the woman. He gave her an incredulous look, feigning anger when she rolled her eyes. 

“I know you will.” She soothed, “I would just like my mother’s necklace returned before our wedding day.” She smiled, it was fake. Illya hummed in response, trying not to cringe at her words. Oleg and the Princess’ parents had decided that the two would make a lovely union, and had settled upon a mutual agreement to marry the two off to each other. Illya tried to tell himself that he could do worse, but it had become so hard to keep his mind off of a certain black-haired trickster lately, that he wasn’t convinced. Within a single night, the man had stolen his watch, and his attention. 

It was infuriating. 

“My lord.” One of the guards approached him from behind, their horse trotting over noisily. He bit back an unkind comment and looked on quizzically. The guard took this as permission to continue. “We have found no trace of any tracks.”

“He is smart.” Illya huffed offendedly, “He would not leave tracks.” 

“No one disappears without any trace.” The princess noted casually, examining her nails with disinterest. “Not even a thief.”

“He does.”

“Oh?” She retorted, “And what makes him so special?” 

“He will not be easily caught.” Illya offered as his only explanation, fighting a groan at the other’s simplicity. How was he the only one that could tell the difficulty catching this man would provide? The princess scoffed, and Illya fought his desire to lash out verbally. 

“We should check the nearest village, My Lord.” The guard spoke up again, his horse huffing indignantly at the same time as the woman. 

“Another village.” She mumbled, lifting her dress and slinking back into the carriage. Illya hid his smirk at her laziness, and nodded at the guard. 

“Good.” He drawled, walking back to sit with the princess on the expensive silk seats. “To the next village.” He commanded the driver before closing the small door. There was a small jerk as they pressed onwards, leaving the pair of royals to their own uncomfortable silence. Illya sent a silent prayer that the silence would last. 

“After we retrieve my mother’s necklace, my parents will want the marriage to continue.” She said softly, watching his face for a reaction. It wasn’t a secret that the two of them had been relying on the ‘wild goose-chase’ to assist in postponing their union, but it would not last forever. Neither of them held the power to veto the elders decision either, so, the chase really was their last resort. 

“Hm.” Illya looked out the small window, watching the trees whizz by. The wooded chase from two weeks prior flashed before his eyes, the electric thrill that he had felt for the first time in so long. 

“We will find him.” She spoke calmly, but there was an edge to her tone. Illya could feel her eyes boring into the side of his face. He felt his own scowl before he could stop himself. 

“Illya.” She whispered when he didn’t respond, reaching across to cover his hand with her own. He broke his focus from the small window and met her eyes. She was giving him a look…pity? “We will find him.” 

He furrowed his brow. 

“I am sorry, Illya.” She tightened her grip, a sad smile on her face. 

“Why do you apologize?” He asked gruffly, his accent thicker than intended. Her expression shifted to that of a knowing concern, an expression usually only connected with an older sibling or a mother. 

“No one chases someone so heartily for a piece of jewelry, refusing an arranged union or not.” 

“What do you mean by that?” He tried to inject venom into his tone, but felt his threat fall flat. 

“I appreciate that this for my mother’s necklace, Illya, but I know that that is not the true cause for your actions.” She smiled again, but this time it was genuine, a tinge of sadness in the corners of her brown eyes. “As a child, I always used to imagine a man chasing after me like this—“ She pulled away to point at his face, “That same look in his eyes.” 

“Look?” Illya croaked, his voice a tad breathless. 

“The look of an infatuated man, Illya.” She chuckled at his idiocy. 

“Infatuated?” He gulped. She released her hold on his hand, cupping his face lightly and looking him straight in the eyes. 

“I am sorry that this is how our circumstances have aligned.” Her thumb stroked gently against the light stubble on his cheek. Subconsciously, he leaned into the touch. He was aware of how pathetic he surely looked in that moment, but could not find it in himself to care. There was a cavern in his chest that was aching, and for someone to acknowledge it, was a welcome comfort. 

It was common knowledge that a royal was only to marry another royal, the exact circumstance that the Princess had been referencing. No matter who the man was, it was an impossible position to be in. 

“I am sorry.” He tried to put all of the unspoken emotions into his gaze, willing the princess to understand how greatly he wished that these affections could be aimed at her instead. 

“I know.” She nodded. “We are all pawns to love, Illya, and I do not hold you responsible.” His chest burned with her words, the mentioning of such a powerful feeling was foreign to him and left a strange rut in its wake. 

The carriage stuttered to a halt, and Illya let out a sigh as the woman’s hand left his face, leaving behind a comforting warmth. A guard pulled open the carriage door and moved aside to allow the royals to step out. Illya pulled his brown jacket closed, preparing for the harsh, late winter winds. He offered the Princess his hand after him, assisting her from the step to the cobblestone below. 

It was a small village, with a dusting of tiny homes littered about the outskirts. They were all built with various sized, smoothed stones, with ivy and moss decorating them like paint. It was almost quaint. The path leading in to town allowed only foot traffic, thus the party was now embracing the cold weather. 

“We will cover more ground if we all take different regions.” One of the guards said monotonously. Illya grunted in agreement. 

“I will go into the heart of town.” He commented. The others followed suit, claiming their respected search areas. Within moments, they were all breaking apart in separate directions. 

Reluctantly, Illya stuffed his hands into his pockets and began the trek down the cobblestone path into town. He passed by numerous small businesses, little children running outside in pursuit of each other. It brought a small smile to the Prince’s face, memories of his own childhood games coming to mind. The parents of the children sat, hot mugs in hand, on their porches with weathered looks in their eyes. It was rather picturesque, the small families with their little homes. 

Illya stopped walking when he came to a run down looking pub. The door was barely hanging on it’s hinges, a crack running along the knob. He rubbed his hands together for warmth before twisting the knob and pushing the door open. The sounds of drunken mirth flowed out of the space, along with an overwhelming odor of alcohol. Illya had to suck in a breath and force himself not to gag at the strength of the stench. A man stumbled into his side, cursing in a muttered language. Pushing the man aside, he weaved further into the pub, through tables of drunks and dissolutes, all with a vague presence about them. Not a single person in the building seemed to have their wits to them, the bottle having washed away their ability for common thought. 

The lighting was dim, candled hung precariously from the lanterns about the rafters. They shifted and swayed, casting forlorn glows across the sullied floor. It reminded the Prince of the below deck of a fishing vesicle—drunken men in a dingy space, putting off a haggard odor. Exactly like a fishing vesicle. 

There were tables throughout the small space, all filled to the brim. The men sat haphazardly on the small wooden benches, throwing up cheers and leaning on each other when their balance began to waver. 

Illya’s search brought him to the bar, a single table lantern making the space feel darker rather than lightening it. The bartender stood with his back to the room, carelessly drying off the inside of a particularly abused mug. Nausea settled as realized how little the man’s efforts were actually cleaning the glass, and that there was more shared between these men than the stories they told. 

His gaze suddenly caught on the back of man, sat leaning against the top of the bar. He was nursing what appeared to be a rich, dark scotch, and his shoulders were slumped tiredly. Illya felt his mouth go dry, he recognized the dark hair that the single light was illuminating—the way it shone like a raven’s feather, and laid in loose waves across the man’s head. 

He floundered for a moment, debating whether it would be wiser to abandon the pub entirely and move on to the next building, pretending as if he had never entered. The burn in his chest at the notion was a clear indicator that it was a void alternative. A deep breath rattled through his lungs, the tainted air taking on a sickly sweet quality. He stepped forwards, his legs stiff. It was not un-resemblant of a child’s toy soldier. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, trembling lightly. The princess’ words echoed through his mind like gunfire as he approached. The only solace was the fact that the other man did not show any sign of noticing his presence, yet. 

Illya mustered his courage, silently cursing for being belittled to the mentality of an imbecile at the sight of the other man. He sat down on the stool next to the still figure, noting that there was still no movement. The bartender turned, and gave him a reproachful look to order. 

“Something dark.” He answered, feeling the tension shift as he spoke. The bartender nodded and turned again to prepare the drink, leaving Illya to inspect the now deadly still figure to his side. The man had sucked in a sharp breath when he had spoken, and had not released it yet, his shoulders wrought with the tension it brought. They lapsed in uncomfortable silence as the bartender returned with the Prince’s drink, before calling out to a drunken row that had begun, and going to attend to it. 

“Started to think you weren’t going to catch me.” The man grumbled, keeping his head down so as not to meet Illya’s eyes. 

“You still have the Princess’ necklace.” The thief groaned, a deep baritone, tossing his head back and downing another swig of his drink. His jugular bobbed with the gulp, his jaw flexing. Illya felt himself getting lost, tracing the sharp angles of the man’s face, scanning over the light stubble that had grown since their last encounter. It suited him. 

“Right.” He breathed, setting down his glass with a dull thud. He ran his tung around in his mouth, making a sour face as the burn of the alcohol overcame his senses for a moment. Illya forced himself to stop scrutinizing, taking a swig of his own drink. It was a dark brewed ale, not half bad for the sorry state the pub itself was in. They sat like that in companionable bliss, Illya watching the other from the corner of his eye. 

“So, this is the part where you take me in.” He drank again, his voice full of loathing. “I’m hung up by my toes and tortured for my wrongdoings.” Illya held in his retort, his grip becoming lethal on his own glass. “I tell them how deeply I regret my choices and they kill me anyways. Probably by fire.” 

The man flinched into himself as Illya slammed his glass down on the bar-top. The two met eyes intensely, challenging the other to break the tension. 

“They will not kill you.” Illya snarled. The thief laughed and Illya felt his blood boil. “They will not.”

“And why not?” The thief challenged, quirking his brow. 

“I—“ He stopped himself, looking away from the other’s dazzling blue eyes. Reluctantly, he raised the glass to his lips again, feeling the burn chase down his throat, wishing it would wash away what he was feeling right now. 

“You what?” The thief laughed, but it did not reach his eyes. “You want to save that for yourself? For stealing your watch?” Illya snarled.

“You are not listening—“ 

“Oh, forgive me.” He rolled his eyes, setting down his now empty glass. “God forbid I not listen to the man about to turn me over to the authorities.”

“I did not say that I was going to ‘turn you over’.” 

“Why else would you be here.” The thief grumbled, tracing his finger against the top of the bar. Illya opened his mouth to answer, but promptly closed it. The other man looked utterly defeated. A part of the Prince suddenly felt the need to try and…comfort the man. Illya blanched at the thought. Damn the man for doing this to him. 

“The Princess would like her necklace returned.” He droned, making himself sound as convincing as possible. The less he sounded like he cared, the better off they would both be. 

“Ah.” The thief studied his face, his forehead crinkling in concentration. Illya tried not to squirm under the attention. It felt as though the smaller man was looking straight through his charade. If it even was a charade. 

“I will be needing that back.” He interjected after a pause. The thief nodded, a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“Anything for the Princess, Prince—“ He turned to the other, waiting for him to fill in the name. 

“Kuryakin.” He offered, “Illya Kuryakin.” The thief hummed, smirking in earnest. 

“A very royal name, Peril. It suits you.” Illya felt a warmth spread across his neck at the compliment. He cleared his throat and reached for another go at his drink, half gone by now. He could feel the thief’s eyes on his face. “Napoleon.” The man said slowly, as if it were a foreign word to his vocabulary. 

“Excuse me?” Illya pondered. 

“My name.” 

“Oh.” Napoleon? Well, now that he knew the name, he couldn’t stop running over it in his mind. It was a well fit choice for the smaller man, although peculiar. He had never known a Napoleon before. 

“My mother’s idea, I assure you.” He raised his empty glass in a mock toast, chuckling at his own inside joke, elaborating when he saw the puzzled look on Illya’s face. “My father wanted a more…masculine name.” 

“Napoleon is not masculine?” 

The thief, Napoleon, laughed. “By my father’s standards? No, no it most certainly is not.” Illya felt an unusual response blossom in his chest as the other man laughed. He felt a small smile tug at his lips. Such a reaction was strange and foreign, and the Prince suddenly felt need of finding an escape.

“It sounds like a name from a story my mother told me as a young boy.” Illya offered instead, preening when the other man looked over with interest. “It was about a desolate land, deserts and famine.” He waved his hand horizontally to further explain. Napoleon’s eyes gleamed in the candle light. 

“Oh? Were there people in these stories, Peril?” 

“Yes.” He tapped his finger to his lips. “No.” The thief tilted his head, leaning forward on his elbow, closer to the Prince. “Not in our sense. Nomadic peoples, traveling from one small town to the next.” 

The bartender set another glass in front of the pair, Napoleon pulling away slightly to nod in gratitude and take hold of the glass before immediately returning to the Prince, sipping lightly. 

“Nomads?” He questioned. “Like—“

“Thieves.” Illya finished, grinning widely when the man scoffed. “Ruffians, my mother called them. In the story, they were called cowboys.” 

“I remind you of ruffian nomads?” Napoleon chortled, “Quite the charmer, Prince Kuryakin.” Illya rolled his eyes, feeling another blush creeping up his neck. 

“You are a thief.”

“Yes, but that does not mean that I wish to be grouped with the others.” Napoleon swirled the glass in his hand before taking a slower drink, purposefully meeting the other man’s eyes as he did. “I’m far superior to other thieves.” He elaborated, running his tung out over his bottom lip for the stray alcohol there. Illya took a large drink from his own glass to counteract the dryness in his mouth at the sight. 

“Yet,” He punctuated smugly. “I have caught you.” 

Napoleon grinned, his blue eyes looking luminescent in the lighting. Slowly, he leaned forward, invading Illya’s space, looking up through thick lashes to meet his eyes. Illya felt himself instinctively leaning in. 

“You’re right, Peril.” He purred, eyes alight. “Now, what do you plan to do with me?” Illya felt a chill run down his spine, his eyelids fluttering closed as he processed the man’s words. A warm breath ghosted against his collarbone and he suddenly found himself overly aware of the position he found himself in. He opened his eyes, finding that the thief had leaned up slightly to where their noses were nearly touching. It would be so easy for either of them to just tilt forward ever so slightly and meet the other’s lips, and the thought was better than any liquid the bartender could have brought him. 

Napoleon let out a small breath and Illya hummed as it wafted about his lips. He was briefly aware of the sound of the pub door being thrown open when there was a sudden heat against him. The smaller man must have set his glass down at some point, because his hands were now being placed gently against Illya’s thighs. Compared to the dry humidity of the pub, the thief’s hands were like an oven, sending sparks through Illya’s flesh where they rested against the fabric covering his legs. They both relished in the moment, slowly bringing themselves closer until they were so close. Their lips were mere seconds from touching—

Napoleon made a small noise of shock, strong arms ripping him away from Illya, who’s eyes had flown open at the disruption. Two guards stood holding the the smaller man between them, evil sneers marring their faces. Illya felt his heart thump painfully in his chest when he saw the wide, panicked eyes of their captive. He wanted to reach out and pull the man back, secure him in his arms and lash out at these men for causing such a look of panic, but he was frozen. Illya felt himself frozen in place, eyes wide and begging forgiveness as the thief struggled in the guards hold. It was proving useless, as the guards had begun to wrestle him backwards, toward the outside of the pub. No doubt where a police carriage was waiting to return him to the castle. 

Napoleon thrashed furiously in their grip, letting out a string of curses and grunts as their hold became uncomfortable and painful. Then, he stopped thrashing, going limp, and looked back towards the bar. They met eyes, and Illya felt the air knocked out of his chest. His hand lifted slightly, desiring nothing more than to reach forward and assist the man. 

“Illya…” Napoleon croaked, eyes wide and desperate, and then he was gone. The pub door closed as the guards ripped the man outside. The prince gasped for breath, feeling moisture burn at the corners of his eyes. Then, with a sudden jolt, he was rising from his place and running (staggering) after them. 

By the time the Prince exited the pub, the two guards had already loaded the thief into the back of a pure black carriage. Illya started, realizing then that he did not recognize the guards, or the carriage. They were from a different Kingdom. 

“Wh-where are you taking him?” He choked out, the nearest guard huffing indignantly before answering. 

“He is to be returned to his Kingdom, by order of the Queen.” 

“His…Kingdom?” 

“Indeed, Sir. This man is a wanted fugitive, by order of his mother, the Queen.” Illya stumbled back a step, feeling as if the world had been tilted on its axis. Napoleon was a prince? But, that would mean that… 

The wheels of the carriage crunched loudly against the stone ground as it moved forwards. Illya watched helplessly as it made it’s way down the street, and disappeared out of sight. His shoulders slumped in defeat. There was still a faint imprint of warmth on his thighs, where the man’s hands had been, and his lips still tingled from the proximity they had reached. He had been so close. They had been so close. 

“Napoleon.” He whispered, testing the word on his tongue. 

“I will find you.”


End file.
